Salt and Peaches
by squishysquashyrainyboots
Summary: Why does Aravis even bother with a shirtless Cor? He becomes entirely too cocky.


**Salt and Peaches**

Usually when Aravis was experiencing one of her bouts of homesick sleeplessness, she made her way to the kitchen, picked up a platter that she filled with the few things they imported from Calormen, strolled to the library, and settled in her favourite armchair, reading Calormene fairy tales by Archenland's moon until she couldn't stay awake any longer.

Tonight, she couldn't find the pickled fish.

Huffing, she turned around and dragged a kitchen chair closer to the wall so she could reach the topmost shelves and have her fish. They were a staple homesick-food. And usually kept in cupboards closer to the floor. But they were just nowhere tonight.

_This is ridiculous_, she thought. They didn't have fruit either.

At least she had olive oil and bread.

She picked up the salt and the pepper, and stepped down from the stool while lifting the legs of the loose grey pants she wore so it didn't snag on something, as it was prone to do. It was old. Something she'd poached from Ardeeb's closet after his death. It was the only garment of his light enough to have taken with her from home.

She was padding to the library, trying to consider where she'd hidden the book last time, when she heard a dull thud somewhere in front of her, possibly the Great Hall, definitely to her right somewhere. ("The Great Hall." Even now, she secretly thought that it was a horrible name. No personality.) It was followed by a noise like a choked laugh. Her brows lifted and she tiptoed to the slightly opened double doors.

For a second, she didn't recognize Cor.

His hair was a mess, almost like when they first met, but with a better cut. He was caught in moonlight, wearing a blue-grayish tunic with the sleeves pushed up, and barefoot. Sitting on the wooden floor, and - eating fruit and pickled fish?

"You had it!" The words were out before she had the time to think. Shasta almost dropped his peach on the sewing equipment in front of him.

She stepped inside with an accusatory frown. "You had the pickled fish. _And _the fruit."

There was a moment of quiet. She eyed the upturned wooden tray and scattered peaches on the floor._ He probably dropped that_, she thought, _and made all the noise. Clumsy._

"I almost thought you were Corin." He took a tiny bite of peach, but didn't look directly at her.

"Corin and I sound nothing alike," she dismissed, annoyed by his apparent inability to look her in the eyes.

"It all blurs together when you're both constantly yelling."

"Only because you're constantly... "

"Eating peaches?" He took another small, pointed mouthful.

Aravis' eyes narrowed as she walked over and held a hand out. "The fish. Now."

Shasta leaned back and looked at the hand. "Isn't this a little peasant-ish for you?"

"You're one to talk, Your Highness."

As if to prove his peasantry, he bit into his snack, properly this time, instead of doing it like someone meeting their fiance's family for the first time. In the process he got juice all over his chin, which he wiped off while mumbling, "I claim improper upbringing."

"Just give me the fish."

He handed her the jar, which she took and sat down next to him with a sigh, abandoning her own platter on the floor. Much more gracefully than he had, no doubt. "Finally."

He smiled, and ducked his head down. Then he tugged his tunic off, impassively pulling it across his lap.

She stared. Whether in shock or confusion, she didn't know. The last time she had seen him forgoing a shirt was three summers ago when the three of them had gone swimming. He was skinny and wiry then. To be fair so was she. He'd spent last summer in Narnia with Corin, to learn a special brand of diplomacy from Edmund (also called manipulation), and she'd been with Lasaraleen the one before that, where she had to reassure everyone she met that she wasn't living with witches and demons in the North. She lied, obviously, because Shasta could suddenly pass for _toned_ and _lean_, and that had to be some sort of sorcery.

Aravis cleared her throat.

Shasta's head tilted up and he eyed her. "What?"

"What are you doing?" She pulled a fish out and bit into it.

"Mending." He held up a needle and the damn tunic. It had a tear on the lower back. She glanced at the corresponding space on his skin, an inch from his spine, and spotted a diagonal cut as long as his hand.

He threaded the needle with such a content expression that she wondered if the midnight Shasta differed somehow from the daylight Cor, who was good at sword fighting and horseback riding and first a brother of Corin, second a son of Lune, third, the Crown Prince of Archenland.

"Training? Have you had it looked at?" The cut wasn't very deep and seemed clean, but that couldn't be an easy place to check for splinters or dust or dirt.

"I washed it earlier."

"Want me to check that it's clean for you?" Aravis tried to keep all skepticism from her voice, as she had once gotten into an argument with him after he got a cut she'd offered to clean for him infected, and last time she'd mentioned that, he'd brought up her insufferable tendency to harbour grudges willingly, and she did not want to discuss her faults right then.

There was a pause before he nodded at her, pulling the first stitch through. "What's that one about aches?"

Sitting down behind him, she muttered, "Some aches are to heal, some are to clean, and some are to be nurtured." The verse continued on in a similar fashion without actually saying anything else she could remember.

"I never understood that one."

Neither did she. However, she grinned as she inspected the clean cut that sat so low on his back, and bluffed. "It's a jewel, Shasta, of southern poetry."

Only when he didn't reply immediately did she realise what she had called him, suddenly sitting up very straight. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, I meant no disrespect, I -"

"Aravis please don't call me that."

"I'm sorry, it just slipped out, I didn't -" She scrambled to her feet and made a rolling motion with her hand, as if trying to explain visually.

"No, I mean, don't call me Your Highness or Your Majesty or anything else like that. I like when you call me Shasta." He twisted so he could see her face, and she realized that his cheeks could flush a spectacular shade of pink.

"Why?" Her hand automatically helped him to his feet and when he was standing, he didn't let go.

"Sometimes it just fits better." And he smiled. It wasn't the same smile he had when he'd won an argument, or when he was laughing, or enjoying something. It wasn't one she knew at all.

It made her want to do things. Soft, strong things - slow things. It made her chest feel warm.

And then he said something (her name?), and she remembered herself.

"No, it doesn't." She opened her hand and took a step back from Sha - Cor! From Cor. "Shasta was just a boy, and you're a prince."

When she hobbled out towards the library with pins and needles in her right foot and the jar of fish in her hands, he nodded, spun around, and sat down. Snorting, he told himself he'd had enough of the salty fish to last a lifetime, anyway.

* * *

A/N: Opinions? Are they in character? Did you hate it? Are you disappointed in my grammar? Tell me!


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